


Like Anyone in the World

by aeli_kindara



Series: Like Anyone in the World [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Dean Winchester, Character Study, Dean/Cas is endgame, F/M, Five Times, Getting Together, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kinda, M/M, PWP, Panty Kink, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 11:44:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20506439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeli_kindara/pseuds/aeli_kindara
Summary: Dean knows how to find the hookup on a hunt — but there are times when he wishes for something else. When his eyes linger on the square jaw of a sheriff’s deputy. The clean lines of a bartender’s body under a tight black t-shirt. The laughing gaze of this week’s pool-hustling victim, the kind of mark Dean wishes hecouldlet beat him, the kind that gets him lining up his shots for the angles that flatter, not just the angles that win.(Or: five times Dean got lucky on a hunt, and one time he got smart.)





	Like Anyone in the World

**Author's Note:**

> Natalie you are so getting blamed for this one.
> 
> Many many thanks to the brilliant [Remmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remmyme) for the beta! You're ridiculous and wonderful and make my heart grow three sizes with your flailing. Thank you. <3
> 
> CW for some implied/referenced homophobia and a very brief mention of April.

### 1\. Deacon

Dean knows how to find the hookup on a hunt — generally speaking.

That’s most of his social interaction these days, with Sammy off at college and Dad wanting basically nothing to do with him. Which — yeah, Dean gets that sounds depressing, but honestly, his life has been far worse than it is now. He’s finally on something like an even keel, after Sammy, and if that means the occasional night with a grateful single mom or a bored co-ed or a gimlet-eyed waitress, getting home after to lounge on his motel bed with a bag of popcorn and an Oprah re-run — well, what of it? _ He _ likes his life well enough, and there’s no one else around to give him shit, so.

Everything’s peachy.

Except — well. Dean knows how to find the hookup on a hunt, but there are times when he wishes for something else. When his eyes linger on the square jaw of a sheriff’s deputy. The clean lines of a bartender’s body under a tight black t-shirt. The laughing gaze of this week’s pool-hustling victim, the kind of mark Dean sorta wishes he _ could _ let beat him, the kind that gets him lining up his shots for the angles that flatter, not just the angles that win.

He’s never acted on any of it. He always kept that shit locked down tight, especially when Dad was around.

It’s been two months since they last hunted together, though. Dad seems perfectly happy to split the North American continent between them. Call Dean with brusque briefings and send him tearing off on the next case, a soldier to be deployed. _ My buddy from the Corps has a sister with a ghost problem, _ he’d said, this time. _ Little Rock, Arkansas. I’ll text you the address. _

\---

Dean knows how to find the hookup on a hunt, but he’s still a little nervous — more than a little nervous — to be standing here outside Deacon’s storm door, shoulders high despite the heat of the night. There’s grave dirt caked to his skin, the smell of sweat and smoke and lighter fluid clinging to his t-shirt. The cicadas are loud in his ears. Somewhere inside, a television is on.

Dean swallows.

The door bangs loudly against its frame when he knocks, springs letting out a metallic shiver. He strikes his fist three times, precise, then drops it when Deacon comes into view, and plasters on a grin.

“Dean,” says Deacon, surprise warm in his voice, “come in.”

“Hey, uh.” Dean shuffles his feet a little on the mat, and it’s not entirely by design. “Sorry, man, I’m kinda filthy. Just wanted to let you know I got her.”

_ Her _ is the ghost that’s been plaguing Deacon’s sister’s family. It wasn’t a hard job, really — straightforward research, straightforward salt-and-burn. Dean got flung into one tree, but he’s young; he can take it. There’s a minor line of fire down the ribs on his right side. Nothing a pill or two later can’t banish.

Deacon’s face cracks into a smile, and, yep — fucking gorgeous. It lights up his face, transforms it, makes Dean go a little weak around the knees. “That’s great to hear, Dean. Your old man would be proud.”

Okay, not that part so much.

“Come on in,” says Deacon again, firmly, which — getting warmer. “Let me pour you a drink.”

_ There _ it is. Dean suppresses a grin, and follows his Dad’s old friend into the house.

It’s a pretty nondescript double-wide, shag carpet and a worn-out recliner facing the living room TV. Dean remembers parking four-year-old Sam in that chair to sleep while he took the wood-backed couch. He doesn’t think Sam remembers the weeks they spent here back in ‘87, while Dad was chasing a witch through the Ozarks. He doesn’t think Deacon has any idea of the time Dean found the magazines stashed under old National Geographics in the bathroom, or the early morning when he woke from a bleary sleep to see Deacon under the porch light, framed in the corner of the living room window, kissing another man on the mouth.

Dean remembers.

Deacon’s drink of choice is a Jack and coke. Dean downs his first highball still standing at the counter, and Deacon laughs and moves to pour him another. When he reaches for the pop bottle, Dean puts a hand on his wrist. He smiles up into Deacon’s eyes and suggests, “Hold the coke.”

Deacon laughs again. He adds another finger of whiskey instead, and slides the glass back over the counter. It leaves a trail of condensation on the formica. Dean lets their fingers brush as he takes it, sips and raises his eyebrows in approval.

He nurses this one more slowly, while Deacon pulls out bar stools. They lean their elbows on the counter as they talk, about the hunt; about Deacon’s nephews, growing fast, and their mother’s work at the hospital; about Vietnam, about John. After a while, Dean drains the last of his glass — he tracks the way Deacon’s eyes follow his throat as he swallows — and sets it down.

“Hey, man,” he says, pulse speeding incrementally. He gestures at himself, still sticky with sweat and dirt. He knows how he smells, strong but not unappealing — it’s a clean sweat, under the tang of fire; a working sweat. “Is there any chance I could use your shower?”

Deacon’s eyes linger on Dean’s face. He goes to find him a clean towel.

In the bathroom, Dean studies himself in the mirror. His stubble is rough from a couple days without a shave, his hair spiked up, eyes bright with whiskey. His lips glisten slightly where he licks them — cock-sucking lips, plenty of guys have jeered.

Dean’s never tested the theory. He’s punched most of those guys in the face.

When he pulls off his shirt, he can see a bruise starting on his ribs, and he grimaces. When he probes it, though, it’s not too bad. He looks good, otherwise — skinny, but not as skinny as he used to be. Finally grown into his muscles.

Deacon appears in the door and stops short, towel in hand, and Dean starts, jumping away from the sink as if it’s burned him. For a wild, uncertain moment, they’re staring at each other, Dean’s pulse racing and Deacon’s face unreadable.

But not _ that _ unreadable. Those are Deacon’s eyes on him, traveling down his bare chest to the waistband of his jeans; that’s Deacon’s throat bobbing uncomfortably as he swallows. Dean should reach out and pull him in. He should —

Deacon hands him the towel and backs out of the bathroom, leaving Dean by himself.

_ Shit. Shit, fuck, damnit. _

Dean stares back at the mirror for a minute longer, furious with himself. Then he grits his teeth, sets the towel down on the toilet tank, and walks back out into the living room.

Deacon’s facing away when Dean comes in, back in his chair and flipping channels with the volume on low. It takes him a moment to see Dean standing there in his peripheral vision — still shirtless, jaw tense and chin high. When he does, his body jerks with surprise.

Before he can open his mouth to speak, Dean says, “You’re gay.”

Deacon flinches. Dean shakes his head impatiently. “I’ve known for ages,” he adds quickly. “Figured it out last time I was here. Never told anyone.”

He sees the line of tension inch higher on Deacon’s shoulders, then incrementally relax. Dean wets his lips with his tongue.

“I, uh, thought about it, though,” he says, and his voice goes lower than he means it to, throatier. “Thought about it a lot.”

“What are you saying, Dean.” Deacon isn’t quite looking at him.

“I’m saying,” Dean says, tilting his head back toward the bathroom, “that you could join me. If you like.”

\---

Deacon comes to his feet halting. He moves across the room slowly, and Dean drinks in the sight of him, the power coiled in his body, the angle of his jaw. His eyes are careful, though, and he stops an arm’s length away.

Dean smirks up at him.

Deacon groans and closes the final distance, tilting Dean’s chin up with one broad thumb and kissing him like he’s dying for it, like Dean’s the one drink of water in a thousand-mile desert, like he’s been wanting to all night.

Dean’s pulse stutters, nearly swoons. Deacon’s arm is a broad bar across his back, and Dean’s not a small man, but he feels like it, now — feels the iron of Deacon’s muscles and the stubble on his cheek, the hard lines of his hips, his chest, his dick. Dean tilts his head for a better angle, mouth wide and messy, and works his arm free so he can run a hand over Deacon’s broad shoulder, up the back of his neck, thread fingers through his hair.

Deacon groans again and withdraws incrementally. He says, “Your Dad —”

“Fuck my Dad.” Dean scowls. For all his reluctance, Deacon’s arm is still tight around the small of Dean’s back. Their hips are still pressed tight together, and Dean grinds them, deliberate. “You saying my Dad’s son can risk his neck for you, but you draw the line at sucking your dick?”

Deacon sucks in air sharply. His dick throbs against Dean’s through two layers of denim, and Dean nearly whines. “Have you even ever —”

He breaks off, panting with the effort of restraint. Dean glares at him. “Is it a problem if I haven’t?”

“Fuck. I guess not.”

Dean kisses him again. Deacon makes a noise low in his throat and grips Dean’s hips and _ moves _ him, pushes him back and back until his shoulders hit hard against a wall. Dean sucks in a breath, arousal fuzzing white around his vision, and arches against Deacon’s solid chest.

“You gotta understand,” pants Deacon, pulling back just far enough to speak against Dean’s lips. His hands are still kneading their way down Dean’s ribs, working free the button of his jeans. “I’m not — I like men who don’t want gentle. I’m a prison guard, Dean. I don’t have gentle in me. If you need someone who’ll teach you slow —”

God, _ God, Christ. _ Dean didn’t know it was possible to be turned on within an inch of your life, but he is; he’s suffocating on it; he needs Deacon to _ do _ something, put his money where his mouth is, because he can’t _ fucking breathe. _ “Need _ you,_” he chokes, “_fuck,_” and he doesn’t have the words for it but Deacon seems to get the message, thank God, _ thank God. _

For all his promises, he _ is _ gentle, in his way. They slam into walls, through doors, but Deacon’s careful of the bruised spot on Dean’s ribs. Grips Dean’s hips tight, but not hard enough to leave marks. Shoves him to his knees under the shower’s spray like he means it, watches with dark eyes as Dean slides forward, grinning and helplessly hard. When Deacon fucks into the back of his throat, it’s punishing, jaw-cracking, but he keeps it slow, just this side of manageable, doesn’t let Dean get overwhelmed or start to choke.

When the muscles of Deans face are aching and his chest is heaving with effort, Deacon pulls him abruptly free, hauling him to his feet. Dean protests, trying futilely to sink back to his knees, and Deacon runs a hand through his hair, tugs it to draw Dean’s head back. He asks, voice low in Dean’s ear, “Do you want me to fuck you? Because we’d better stop that now if you do.”

Which is how Dean finds himself, shower-damp and rutting helplessly at any friction he can find, bent over the foot of Deacon’s bed. Sucking in breaths of sheets that smell faintly of nicotine and laundry detergent as Deacon’s fingers work him open, as Deacon lines his dick up and slides home. It’s so fucking good, so _ fucking _ good, like that night with Rhonda Hurley a million times over, and then Deacon bends over him, a crushing, perfect weight, and murmurs low in Dean’s ear as he jacks him off, words Dean won’t even remember, until Dean’s trembling and his muscles are clamping tight and Deacon’s _ still _ driving into him, rhythm implacable, and Dean’s coming, coming in wide spurts all over Deacon’s bed.

Afterward, he lazes there floating, Deacon’s broad hand on his ribs and breath slow and rhythmic in his ear. They fuck again in the morning, a third time against the Impala’s hood when Deacon gets back from his shift to find Dean out working on her in the driveway, messy with grease and sweat.

Then, Dad calls, something about a voodoo thing in New Orleans. Dean kisses Deacon goodbye on the front porch, like he saw that other man do once, long ago, and drives away, off into the cicada-buzzing night.

### 2\. Pamela

Dean doesn’t hook up with any more men, once Sam’s around. He does sleep with women — plenty of women, maybe more than he would’ve, left to his own devices. But Sam’s flapping around all the time like a sodden blanket, unwilling to admit he’s desperate to get laid. Dean thinks he might need an older-brotherly example, or something. It’s not like it’s a chore.

He doesn’t think Sam would _ disapprove, _ if Dean spent the night with a man once in a while. Dad would, he thinks, or maybe hopes; he knows his father’s moral code, but he’s never sure where he stands in relation to it, whether he’s too ruined already for his dad to really care. But then Dad’s gone, _ really gone, _ all to save Dean’s worthless life. Which makes him feel even shittier, for a good long while, about doing anything the old man might’ve frowned on.

They see Deacon again, once, on a case. Dean avoids his gaze, a little, then jerks off to a fresh batch of prison fantasies for months.

Then he sells his soul, and figures, fuck it, why not bang dudes?

It only happens once, though, that whole long year. Dean thinks he takes some pills that night, doesn’t skimp on the alcohol either. He wakes up fuzzy and sore with little memory, and limps his way back to the Impala. Picks up coffee and donuts to cover his absence from the motel.

He spends forty years in Hell. He comes back fresh and clean as a baby, with a bright red handprint on his shoulder and insistent ringing in his ears. The sexy psychic who tries to sort it out for him gets her eyes burnt out for her trouble.

Somehow, Pamela doesn’t hold it against him. Somehow, she winds up with his phone number — scribbled hastily under her emergency contact at the ER — and then there’s a text waiting on Dean’s phone one day with a photo of a whole case full of glass eyes and the question _ What do you think? I’m considering blue. _

Dean doesn’t think about his intense new guardian angel. _ You looked good in green, _ he types back instead, and she answers, _ If you wanted to match our outfits so bad, Dean Winchester, you could have just asked. _

She winds up choosing white plastic — cloud-white and blank, which she says is cheap and good for business, and it doesn’t bother Dean nearly as much as he’d have thought. Doesn’t make him think of Lilith or Alastair when she tugs him in her front door, laughing. When she steps in close to whisper, “_God, _ I could feel that monstrosity of yours rumbling half a mile away, got me all riled up,” and sticks her tongue in his ear.

From there, it’s easy. He’s had a test run, with Jamie in Pennsylvania, and he’s pretty sure he got back topside with his mojo intact, even if his body still feels new and clean and alien_. _ He likes that Pamela didn’t know him before. That she doesn’t look at him like some heaven-sent gift she can’t quite believe is _ here, _ the way Sam and even Bobby do when they think he’s not watching.

It’s Dean’s fault that Pamela can’t look at him at all.

“You’re just as delicious as I remember,” she tells him, trailing a hand down his ribs, freed of his shirt and knocked back across her couch. She scrapes her nails lightly over his skin, and he arches into it, drawing a low laugh from her throat. “You know the worst thing about being blind? All the things you _ remember, _ but can’t _ touch._”

“You can touch,” Dean tells her, and he means it to come out flirtatious, exaggerated, but her other hand on the inside of his thigh drives the air out of him, “anywhere —”

“Shh.” She reaches up to cover his mouth with her hand, then his eyes. “No looking. Fair’s fair.”

Dean obeys, pulse tripping in his throat. He feels her hair brush her skin, her weight shifting, then her tongue, warm and sudden, tracing the lines of the handprint on his shoulder. He shudders, and kneads her hips.

Pamela kisses him on the collarbone, then the throat. She takes his hands in hers and kisses them, too, works his fingers into her mouth and sucks them obscenely, hips rolling softly against Dean’s ribs. When he tries to trail his fingers down her belly, though, she stops him, drawing his hand gently away.

“You’ll get your turn,” she murmurs, bending down so she can whisper directly into his ear. Her hands catch his wrists, arching them up above his head, pinning him. “Think you can keep those there for me? Eyes shut, hands tied?”

“Not a very even playing field anymore,” he points out, muffled when she bites lightly at his lower lip. Her hands run back down his arms, raising goosebumps, but he keeps them where they are. He’s rewarded by her breasts pressing against him, the soft rumble of her delight passing from her chest to his.

“No,” she agrees, “I suppose it’s not. I can get something to tie you, if it helps.”

Arousal pools warm between his hips. Dean smiles. “I can do it.”

“Good boy,” says Pamela, and bites his earlobe, harder this time. Her hands are sliding down his chest, his belly, pressing his thighs open wide. She cups his balls suddenly, and he gasps, body wrenching with an unexpected wave of pleasure, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

“You said _ anywhere,_” Pamela comments, pressing a finger back, back, _ in. _

“Fuck,” Dean breathes. Sweat beads on his forehead; sparks of pleasure lurch at his hips, claw up his gut. He hasn’t done this in — not since before he was raised, and Pamela is steady, inexorable, pressure building faster than he can take it and not move. He writhes, muscles shaking, all his effort focused on keeping his eyes closed, his hands where they are. “Fuck, fuck, _ fuck —_”

“That’s the idea,” Pamela offers, and then her lips close over the head of his dick, and words abandon Dean for a good long while.

### 3\. Aaron

“I should apologize,” says Dean, “for pulling the Fed act on you back there. At the bar, I mean.”

He’s standing in the doorway of Aaron’s kitchen, hands in the pockets of his cheap suit pants. Fumbling, like he has been all day, over the panicky normalcy of a thing like Aaron: an attractive man, smiling at him in a bar. Like Dean is _ wantable. _Like Dean’s just another guy.

He doesn’t feel like just another guy. He barely feels human, most days; usually, he feels like a doomed man who somehow outlived the hangman’s noose, who tried to be a husband and father and tried to be a brother and tried to be a friend and sooner or later failed at them all. He feels like he needs to be back in Purgatory — needs something to kill.

He still sees Cas, disappearing behind that portal, every night in his dreams.

It’s barely even occurred to him, since he’s been back: sex. His needs are met — food, clothing, shelter — and everything else seems distant. Hazy, immaterial.

Except for now, he has a grandfather with a legacy. He has a secret underground bunker that might be a home. His own room. A hot shower. A kitchen he can cook in, and the _ wanting _ of it flashes in and out of view, too enormous and urgent to perceive all at once.

If he has a home, he could have someone to share it with. If he could have someone to share it with, he’d want —

Too much, too much, too fast. But there is this: a charade of flirtation, as if he and Aaron were both just normal guys, who saw each other in a bar and thought: _ yes. _

Now, Aaron’s looking surprised and puzzled. He’s in the middle of washing dishes in the kitchen sink; it might be weird, Dean thinks, to go looking for a hookup in a house recently strewn with the bodies of dead Nazis, but then it’s also pretty weird to cook dinner there.

“I mean… I should apologize?” Aaron answers, finally. “For pulling the eye magic act?”

“Oh, uh,” says Dean. He shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. “No worries.”

Aaron turns fully away from his dishwashing, leaning a hip against the counter. His hands are sudsy, his expression confused. His eyes search Dean’s face, then widen with dawning revelation.

“It’s just,” says Dean quickly, panicking, because if Aaron _ asks _ him a damn thing there’s no way he’s getting this out. “It’s just, it’s been a while, and Sammy, y’know, he doesn’t — know. Not that he wouldn’t be, I dunno, cool, but with the way we grew up, and it’s never been a big thing —”

“Oh, my God,” says Aaron, mercifully shutting Dean up. “You’re actually gay. You’re _ gay?” _

Dean’s face is flaming. “Bi,” he says, like it’s not the first time he’s ever spoken the damn word out loud.

“Oh, my God,” says Aaron again. He seems entirely content to just stand there taking the revelation in, dripping gentle soap bubbles onto the floor, while Dean shifts from foot to foot and wonders if it’s possible to get any redder. Then Aaron raises a hand to his forehead, hovers, lets it drop again. “Wait. Are you telling me I had a shot?”

Dean hopes the golem can’t hear him. He meets Aaron’s eyes and confesses, quietly, “Kind of why I came back.”

“Oh, shit. Ah shit.” Aaron seems to notice, for the first time, that he’s dripping; he sets down the scrubbing brush quickly, wipes his hands on his pants. “Um. I haven’t, since I’ve had this guy in tow — golem? Hey, buddy.”

The golem’s steps are like thudding boulders as it re-enters the kitchen, and if Dean had thought this situation couldn’t possibly get any more embarrassing, he was wrong. “Great. Okay,” he mumbles, nodding a painful smile up at the enormous clay-man, who looks at him like it’s evaluating whether his head needs to be pureed against the cabinets.

There’s a very interesting crack in the plaster on the far wall. Good for studying. Dean does that.

The golem stares at him for a moment, then shifts his gaze to Aaron. “You intend to fornicate with this man.”

Aaron chokes, and glances hastily at Dean. “Yeah, uh,” says Dean, staring determinedly at his wall topography, “that’s the concept.”

“Hm,” says the golem.

Aaron takes a tentative step forward. “Could you, uh,” he starts, “patrol the perimeter? Y’know, we’ll be sort of — vulnerable — so —”

“I will not observe your fornication,” the golem agrees. Without further comment, he stomps out.

Alone in the kitchen, Dean looks at Aaron. Aaron looks at Dean. A half-smile hovers on his lips, eyes alight with interest, but they’re still awkward — they’re _ so awkward. _ Dean doesn’t know how to fucking do this. With Benny it was desperate clashes and blood-slick mouths, fucking against trees or on riverstones, every nerve alight with the certainty of imminent danger. With Cas —

What the hell does he mean, with Cas? Yeah, he might have fantasized, but there is no _ with Cas. _

“Do you want any dinner?” asks Aaron, abruptly. “I cooked, spaghetti — it’s pretty good, and there’s more than enough for two, since he doesn’t eat.” He jerks his thumb toward the door where the golem disappeared. “I just put it in the fridge but I could reheat it if you —”

And suddenly, like the tumblers on a lock, Dean’s gears click into place.

“Yeah, I was sort of thinking something else,” he offers, moving forward. He shoulders off his coat and hangs it over the back of a chair in one smooth motion, then pauses to survey Aaron, lifting his eyebrows. “What was it again? ‘Yifalchunbee’?”

“Oh,” says Aaron, smile widening. “All right, then.”

They come together like they actually know what they’re doing, hands on hips and hair and mouths sliding into that perfect angle, buttons unfastening under quick fingers, low laughter and quick intakes of breath. When they’ve stumbled into the bedroom, Aaron hooks his fingers in Dean’s jeans and sinks to his knees, condom in hand, breathing, “God, been wanting to do this —”

“Hang on. Let me,” Dean protests, ‘cause he’s been wanting to do this too, been thinking all day about the weight and taste of a cock in his mouth, about hollowing his cheeks in encouragement, about moaning half-words around it when he can’t speak —

Which is how they wind up 69ing, splayed across Aaron’s bed. It’s fucking phenomenal and fucking _ hard, _ Jesus, keeping balance and rhythm when your brain’s shorting out from pleasure, and Dean’s done this with girls before but never with a dude. Aaron makes spectacular, filthy noises around his dick, all the hotter for how un-self-conscious they are, and cups Dean’s balls in one hand and comes two seconds after he does, gasping and sucking encouragement and laughing, a couple moments later, in incredulous delight.

Dean collapses back onto the bed with a sigh. He likes that Aaron laughs, during sex; it’s a funny fucking thing for two people to do. He likes that Aaron keeps looking over at him with that smile curving his lips, like he can’t believe his luck. Like Dean’s just some hot guy he met at a coffee shop or a bar. Like they could be anyone in the world.

They’re not anyone in the world.

“So, what, you’re a Man of Letters now?” Dean asks Sam, later, watching him add a carefully cross-referenced card to one of the many drawers that seem to honeycomb their new home. He swallows, remembering countless nights of little Sammy mumbling to himself under a hundred different kitchen table lights, jotting notes. He adds, before Sam can protest: “Good.”

Sam belongs doing this. Aaron belongs where he is, carrying on the Judah Initiative.

Dean can’t shake the feeling that the only place he’s ever belonged is at the center of 360-degree combat, his blade at some monster’s throat.

### 4\. Rowena

In the empty hotel room, Dean looks at Rowena. Rowena looks at Dean.

This is funny, this curse. People keep telling him who he is and what he’s like, and he keeps forgetting, and then they have to do it again. The tall man with the hair — Sam — his brother — wants Dean to remember. He wants Dean to look and talk and act like the person he’s used to, and Dean wants Sam to be happy, so he tries.

He wants the red-headed lady — Rowena; her name is Rowena — to be happy, too. Dean’s good at making people happy, he thinks. It’s pretty simple: he _ wants _ to, and he _ can. _

“So,” he says, turning up his most charming smile. At least, he thinks it’s his most charming; how would he know? He almost slips into a frown instead, then remembers his objective. “Did you and me ever…?”

Rowena’s eyebrows shoot up into her bangs. For a moment, she merely looks at Dean; then she takes a step forward, another.

Her hand splays across Dean’s chest. Dean grins.

“Sorry, dear,” Rowena murmurs, rising on her tiptoes to speak directly up into his ear. “I like them _ tall._”

She shoots a meaningful glance toward the locked motel room door, then brushes past him in the other direction, curls bouncing. Dean frowns; is there someone outside?

No — Sam. That’s where Sam left through. His brother, Sam.

Sam is _ tall. _

Dean turns around. Rowena is unpacking her bag across the motel room table. It’s full of bowls and candles and weird little bottles and scraps of plants and hair. “I’m tall,” he says, already unsure of why he needs to point this out.

The red-headed lady’s cheeks dimple in a little smile. She looks kind of like she disapproves of smiling, like she’d rather hide it away. She ducks her chin. What’s her name?

“I’m sure you are, dear,” she says. She’s kind of cute, in a tiny, bony sort of way. Her hair is _ bouncy. _ Did they ever —?

“But no,” she adds, looking up to fix him in an icy stare.

Dean sighs. He’s not sure what she’s telling him no to, but he’d better not do it, whatever it is. He picks up a bottle, and the red-headed lady plucks it back out of his hand, setting it down on the table with a _thunk_.

This is boring. There are funny little bottles on the table; Dean reaches out for one. “Stop touching everything,” snaps a tiny red-headed lady with bouncy hair, slapping his hand away. Does he know her? There are funny little bottles on the table. He reaches for one —

“Ugh, here.” She shoves a doll into his hand, and a little red pillow full of pins. Dean takes them. “Play with this, and I’ll tell you a story.”

Dean shrugs, and leans back against the table, drawing a pin clear of its pillow to jab experimentally at the doll. “Okay.”

The lady sighs deeply and leans back beside him. “Once, a beautiful witch…”

### 5\. Donna

Donna looks at Dean over the carcass of the exploded rugaru. Her hair stands out in a halo of smoky frizz. A fragment of rotting skin drips slowly off her sheriff’s badge. She blinks, and her eyelids are the only part of her face not ashy with former monster.

She smiles brightly. “So. Spa day?”

\---

Dean has never, strictly speaking, been to a spa. He asked Donna, and going undercover as an employee doesn’t count.

Within an hour, he can see why not. He’s gonna have to tell Sam and Cas; this shit is fucking _ amazing. _ Hands are doing things to his shoulders he never thought could be done. He turns his head, mashing his cheek in the horseshoe-shaped face pillow, and whispers to Donna: “This shit is fucking _ amazing._”

She mashes her face, too. Her eyebrows are singed; it makes her look villainous. She whispers back, “_I know._”

\---

They get facials and manicures and pedicures and soak in a saltwater pool. Dean doesn’t let Donna choose a nail polish for his hands, but why the hell not for his feet? He wriggles his toes, and admires the blue on them. It makes him think of oceans and Cas’s eyes.

A bottle of champagne and plate of chocolate-covered strawberries come with their lunch. When the waiter’s gone, Donna leans across the table to whisper, “It’s because I booked the couples package,” only they both dissolve into laughter halfway through.

The hotel room is a lot nicer than Dean’s usual fare, with an enormous king bed and a flatscreen TV. They skim channels until they find a James Bond marathon, and settle back to debate Connery versus Brosnan. Donna pillows her head in Dean’s shoulder — her hair smells nice — and reaches over him for popcorn from the bowl he’s got nestled to his hip. She eats it meditatively, one kernel at a time.

Dean’s drowsy, blissed out from the day, for all it’s barely late afternoon. Donna’s body is warm against his, relaxed, her hip a curve that fits his hand. She rests her palm flat against his belly, idly thumbs his rib. Abruptly, something sharp and sweet twists inside him.

It feels so good, to hold and be held. Just this: so _ fucking _good, and he doesn’t have it, might not ever have it, with someone who — who —

His eyes sting, and his breath hitches.

Donna sits swiftly, the bed bouncing with the motion. “Don’t you dare start snoring on me, Dean Winchester,” she threatens. “We still need to drink _ whiskey _ and _ talk about our love lives._”

Dean grins up at her. If his eyes are shining, she doesn’t seem to notice. “Yes, ma’am,” he agrees.

\---

“You know, my first,” says Donna. She hiccups, slightly, curling her fingers in front of her mouth as if to mask it, and Dean cracks up at the delicate gesture. Donna drops her hand and roars with laughter too, hiccuping three more times before managing, through snorts of mirth, “my first was in a _ barn. _”

Dean’s wheezing. “I’ve never had sex in a barn,” he manages, through it. “Been thrown around plenty of them, but usually —”

“Don’t,” Donna advises. She gestures between her legs. “Imagine straw, all up in your hoo-ha.”

Dean can’t help it; he fucking _ dies. _

By the time he can breathe again, he’s slumped on the floor at the foot of the bed, ribs aching from laughter. Donna’s beside him, gasping; a Bond girl saunters across the TV screen. “Come on,” manages Donna, through helpless giggles, “what’s _ your _ dumbest sex story?”

An image flashes through Dean’s head of the Cas he met in an alternate timeline, sweaty and debauched, scheduling his next orgy. But that’s not _ his _ sex story. “All right, senior year of high school,” he offers instead, spreading his hands to set the scene. “We were in Des Plaines for a month or two, and there was this girl who’d graduated the year before — Rhonda Hurley.”

He tells her the whole story. He’s never told it to anyone before, and he means it to come out comical, a joke at his own expense, but instead he finds himself talking about — how fucking good it felt, the rush of shock and paralyzed arousal as she threaded her panties up over his thighs. Rhonda drawing back to admire her handiwork, standing over him in nothing but a white t-shirt, watching his blush chase itself from his ears to his toes.

He tells Donna about realizing the fabric against his dick was already damp from her, and nearly coming on the spot; Rhonda bending down to kiss his lips and cup him, quelling, through the silky material. The rush of desperate, shame-faced devotion. The orgasm, later, still in the top ten of his entire life.

“Wow,” says Donna, glassy.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs.

For a moment, they both just lie there, staring at the ceiling. Then Donna seizes his arm. “Dean. _ Dean._”

Dean sits up. “What?”

“There’s an intimates shop down on First Avenue,” Donna says in a rush. “I’m not sure, but I think they’re open late —”

She cuts off there. Stares at him for a moment, wild-eyed. Then they both say it together: “_Let’s go._”

\---

When they get back, it’s nearly midnight, and they’re both carrying bags: Donna three to Dean’s one. He keeps thinking about the garment inside and wanting to shrivel up from shame, but Donna’s confident enough for both of them, banging the door closed behind her and pouring another drink for each of them with the bags still dangling off her wrists. She hands Dean his and quirks her eyebrows and says, “So. Fashion show?”

He’s not sure he’s ready for that. But Donna doesn’t ask him to be. She spins into the bathroom, and after several minutes of muffled fidgeting and one loud _ fuck!_, emerges in a whirl of triumph and leather.

She’s wearing a black corset. Enormous black stiletto heels; her hair is pulled up in a severe high ponytail that swings as she walks. She’s got a riding crop in one hand; the other, she rests on her hip, popping it out to one side. Dean cheers and wolf whistles, and Donna marches the length of the room and back again, trailing her crop over his cheek as she goes.

She stops in the door of the bathroom to give him a wink, then disappears again inside.

The second look is softer, more romantic. Hair down and a lacy red bra and panties, with another kimono-type garment over it all, filmy and insubstantial. It’s less Dean’s style than the dominatrix thing, which, yeah, he’s got some self-awareness about that, but she looks beautiful. 

She’s still wearing the same heels, too. They’re muffled by the carpet, but they still clip briskly as she marches the length of their makeshift runway. She stops to do a shimmy in front of him, then half-collapses laughing, and he catches her. Whirls her into a dip.

She’s giggling when they rise out of it, taking his hand to pull him into a slow dance — there’s no music — and Dean’s drunk; he’s drunk, and he’s happy, and there’s a pair of midnight blue panties in the shopping bag next to his duffel, and he says, “You know, I always thought we’d be good together. You and me.”

“Yeah?” Donna pulls back, and her cheeks are dimpled in a grin.

“Yeah.” His hand finds her hip again, sliding under the kimono to touch bare skin. She sways into it for a moment, then hooks him by the belt loops and pulls him in, hip to hip. She leans close, eyes sparkling and voice dropping low. “Well then, cowboy, let’s go.”

It catches him off-guard, though it shouldn’t; the easy wanting. “You sure?” he asks, through a growing smile, and Donna snorts. She’s unbuttoning his shirt. “Have you _ seen _ you?” she demands. “_Yeah, _ I’m sure.”

“Well, all right then,” says Dean, and helps her with the final button.

When it’s free, Donna slides his shirt back on his shoulders for a moment, admiring. Then she cups his jaw and tilts his head and kisses him, sweet and slow, trailing free fingers down his chest; he shivers. Lets his own hands travel over her back, her ass, her thighs — and she shrieks out a laugh when he lifts her, suddenly, hoists behind her knees and falls back onto the bed, Donna straddling his chest. 

She kisses him again, breathless. “Show-off,” she murmurs, and “mm-hm,” Dean agrees, thumbing the line of her panties and making her gasp; he slides lower, kissing her throat, her breasts. The fabric of the new bra is nearly sheer, and he can feel her nipples tighten and pebble right through it. He circles one with his tongue.

Donna makes a needy sound and grinds against him, canting to make contact with the bulge in his jeans. He spreads his palms on her thighs to hitch her higher, instead, craning up to kiss the line of her panties. “This ok?” he murmurs, moving a hand to work them off; “Oh, _ fuck _yeah,” Donna breathes, Minnesota accent hot and heavy.

She’s glorious, like this, riding Dean where he’s pinned between her thighs. Her body rolling with it, gorgeous in the lamplight, gold skin and gold hair; she gasps and gleams with sweat and runs her fingers across his scalp, down his biceps, cants back to run circles over his abs, his hips. Then she’s curling forward, hair falling until it brushes his face, and gasping and shuddering and rolling against him, hard, fingers digging bruises in his skin.

She kisses the taste of herself from his mouth, after, and her hips never quite stop moving. She gets his jeans down around his ankles and straddles his hips and fucks him, hard, snapping their hips together and shaking the mattress and banging the headboard against the wall. They both come shouting, and collapse afterward in a fog of weightless bliss, tangled with each other and the sheets.

When Dean wakes in the morning, Donna’s spooned to his chest again, snoring lightly and with a slight hickey blooming on her neck. She stirs and starts to wake, and he prods her hip. “Sorry we didn’t break those panties out last night. Maybe next time, huh?”

Donna rolls over, squirming with pleasure in the sheets, then back again. She lifts her head, and her hair is a nest of disarray; she squints one eye at him, smiling. “Dean, honey, I love you. But those panties aren’t for me, and you’re not either. You know that, right?”

Dean draws back. He knows no such thing, but he can’t say that to Donna.

It should be awkward, then, maybe, the gathering of their things, the goodbyes — but somehow it isn’t. She ducks in the bathroom to smack his ass as he packs up his toiletries. “Hey, if that angel of yours can ever spare you, you give me a call, all right?”

### 6\. Cas 

Cas isn’t Dean’s angel. Cas isn’t Dean’s anything.

He isn’t sure why this is the quip that bothers him; people have been insinuating the same for years. On the days when he’s honest with himself, they’re not entirely wrong. But that’s one thing — Dean’s ten-year unrequited crush. It’s not his fault; Cas pulled him out of Hell, for fuck’s sake, and Cas has those hands and those eyes that turn him over inside, send flutters of helpless emotion racing down his limbs — make him want to drop to his knees. Cas, who’s fucking beautiful, fucking _ perfect, _and lets Dean touch that sometimes — come near and bask in his light.

Dean’s tried his damnedest not to take that for more than it’s worth.

Because Cas is Cas. For a long time, Dean figured sex just wasn’t his thing — couldn’t be, with all the oblivious close-standing and mouth-staring, no sexual being could fail to register all of that — but then there was Meg, and the reaper April, and that chick in Idaho. Nora. Dean’s not oblivious to why he remembers all their names.

So, maybe Cas has some red-blooded needs in that mixed up angel body of his, but it’s clear enough: none of them are for men.

And Dean’s fine with that. Honestly. He wouldn’t wish that on Cas; it’s messed with his own head enough, over the years. Though there are times — witnessing the casual angelic disregard for gender — that the whole thing feels fucking unfair. Of all the multidimensional wavelengths of celestial intent Dean could’ve fallen for, he had to pick one that’s not into dudes.

And it doesn’t help — it _ doesn’t fucking help _ — when people like Donna assume otherwise.

Only. When he’s honest, his most honest, scraping the barrel of his emotions for whatever brackish truths are hiding there, he can acknowledge: the sex thing wouldn’t be a deal-breaker. If Cas wanted to be, be something, but he didn’t want to take it to bed — fine. If he wanted to fuck other people. What scares Dean most is the idea of walking up to Cas and asking — what? _ will you be my boyfriend, kissing optional? _ — and getting turned down anyway.

That’s a lie; there’s one thing that scares him more, and it’s that Cas might leave before he gets the chance to decide.

Cas is restless, these days; Cas is grumpy. It’s been just the two of them in the bunker for a while now, with Sam and Rowena off together not-killing-each-other and all that, and Dean can’t shake the feeling that he’s not enough — that sooner or later Cas will get bored. Move on. Come up with something that needs his attention, like he always seems to do. 

It’s even been in the air between them lately. Cas giving him these sorrowful looks and opening his mouth to say something genuine, and Dean keeps cutting him off just in time. _ Man, I’m beat, I should grab a shower, _ or _ hey, what do you think of this freaky accident? could be a case, right? _ or _ want pizza for dinner? I want pizza for dinner. _ Once, in a panic — he thought Cas was out — he blurts _ hey, check this out _and spins his computer around and they wind up watching five hours of Dean’s current anime binge. At least it’s not porn.

Sometimes he even flees the bunker — goes to ride around town, visit with Marta at the post office and Jackson at the liquor store, Mildred and Walt and Judith down at Oak Park Retirement Home. That’s always good for some gossip; it’s stunning how horny old people are. He gets back from those visits and can usually keep Cas distracted for a solid hour with tales of their sexual exploits, not to mention who sat with who for piano hour.

But none of it stops the soulful looks, or the pursed lips, or the increasing air of pissy distraction. It seems like Cas’s hair reflects his mood: spiked up and chaotic, like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop. Dean hates himself, more than a little. It’s pretty bullshit to smokescreen a guy into hanging out with you by refusing to let him tell you he wants to leave.

Sooner or later, things are bound to come to a head.

It happens in the kitchen. Dean’s fresh off the phone with a vic’s mom, and he talks to a lot of bereaved family members, but this one hurts more than usual — one he couldn’t save. He sits heavily at the table and scrubs his hands over his face. Then he drops them, and looks up, and there’s Cas: rounding the corner with an intent look in his eyes, the set of his jaw determined.

Dean leaps to his feet. He can’t deal with this; not now, not now, not now. “Hey, Cas, uh,” he says, casting around, but his mind is blank. He strides with purpose to the fridge. “You want a beer?”

He’s got the door open and one longneck in hand, peering inside for where he might have stashed a second, when Cas grips him by the collar of his shirt, and spins him around, and kisses him.

An involuntary yelp escapes Dean’s throat, directly into Cas’s mouth. Cas still has his hand knotted in the shoulder of Dean’s shirt, and he drives him back into the fridge door, kissing him harder; it’s wet and inexpert and his lips are going to bruise and _ God, fuck, is this really happening? _Is Dean dreaming, or hallucinating, or —

When he opens his mouth, Cas sinks into it, turning his head to fit them perfectly together; his tongue delves past Dean’s lips, and he curls his fingers between the buttons at Dean’s chest. His hand is warm and solid over Dean’s racing heart. Dean’s shaking, he’s losing his mind; he gathers himself enough to reach out and touch, hesitant palms skimming Cas’s hips, and Cas pulls back to look at him.

He’s a glorious mess. His hair is everywhere, and his mouth is wet and swollen, eyes blazing. “Dean Winchester,” he says, “I do not want a beer. I want to have sex with you. I want to do it now, and I want to do it many more times before we both die. I want to have _ horny old people sex _ with you. I want to start now. Is this agreeable to you?”

There are wires loose in Dean’s brain; he can’t make them reconnect. He lifts his fingers, in a daze, to touch his own lips. They’re spit-slick and puffy.

He doesn’t understand what’s happening. He doesn’t need to understand what’s happening. “Yeah, Cas,” he breathes, “yeah,” and Cas cups the back of his head and crushes their mouths together again.

They spill clothes in a path to Dean’s bedroom, yanking at each other’s inelegantly, tripping over their own feet. By the time Cas is backing him into the foot of his bed, Dean’s down to jeans and boxers tangled with his boots around his ankles, and Cas is naked, all the way; Dean’s not sure how he managed that, but he knows he approves. Cas naked is a sight to fucking _ see, _ all smooth skin and unfairly muscled limbs, and he’s hard and bobbing with it. Dean stares down between their bodies, mesmerized, and their dicks nearly brush; then they do, and he lets out a shout that’s also a groan that’s also a prayer, because _ God, _ how can this be happening so fast? How can it have taken them this long to find their way here?

“You are the stupidest man I have ever encountered,” Cas tells him conversationally, and pushes Dean down onto the bed with a _ whoof _of air.

He drops to his knees a moment later, almost out of sight — Dean props himself up on his elbows to watch the top of Cas’s head. He’s working Dean’s boots free, one at a time, discarding each with a _ thunk _ on the floor; then he’s tugging at his jeans, bundling them free. His belt buckle clinks on the floor, and Dean’s naked; completely naked, impossibly naked, under the heat of Cas’s stare.

Cas’s fingers curl around Dean’s ankle, rub up the length of his Achilles and back down again. The look on his face is slower, suddenly, softer, and abruptly Dean can’t go another moment without kissing him. “Cas,” he chokes, “please,” and he’s lost the words for what he wants, but Cas seems to know anyway. He comes to his feet slowly, then bends over Dean with one knee on the bed, tipping up his chin to kiss him.

Their chests brush together, heated skin on skin, and Dean abruptly loses his balance. His elbows go out from under him and he falls back onto the bed, but Cas follows him down. Keeps kissing him, fingers tracing a map across Dean’s cheekbones, his temples, his ears and the side of his nose; and then Cas is hooking a finger between his lips, and Dean — Dean fucking _ loses _ it, clamping on and sucking down hard. Cas draws back in surprise, but his eyes are dark with arousal, and the next moment he’s pulling his finger free and trailing it, warm and slick, down Dean’s chest. Toying with his nipple — Dean gasps; his hips heave — and meandering lower; this way, then that, across his belly, down into the brush of hair around his dick.

“Cas,” Dean’s choking out, words without thought, “your fucking — wanted you for _so long,_ _fuck,_ I can’t —”

“Shh,” says Cas, and raises his hand to wet his finger again, in his own mouth this time — Dean makes a desperate noise at the sight — before lowering it and sliding it, without preamble or equivocation, between Dean’s splayed legs and up his ass.

Dean yells. His hands make fists in the sheets; his dick throbs painfully, and he closes his eyes for an instant, but he can’t keep them closed; Cas is watching him curiously, chin tilted. “Does that feel good?”

A garbled breath escapes him. “Cas, _ fuck, _ yes it feels good, you fucking monster,” and Cas is folding over him again, kissing Dean’s chest, his throat. His mouth, and his finger crooks and Dean swears, and Cas murmurs into his lips, “I have no idea what I’m doing. Will you show me?”

Which is how Dean finds himself uncapping the bottle of lube he keeps in his nightstand drawer. Spreading himself out on his own bed and fingering himself — first one, then two, then three — while Cas kneels over him. He watches with fascination, bending low to see where Dean’s fingers work past his rim, hair tickling his thighs. And he can’t stop touching — trailing fingers over Dean’s ribs, his face, his hips. Tracing circles around his balls, up his dick — but light, maddening, there and then gone. “_Cas,_” Dean groans, fucking himself helplessly on his own hand, and he only half-hears the bottle of lube uncapping again before there’s another long finger joining his own, sliding in beside them.

Dean _ whines. _“Cas, if you don’t fucking fuck me, I swear to God —”

Cas bends low. “Are you ready now?”

The motion brings their dicks together, and they ride lengthwise, velvet-smooth. Dean nearly loses his vision. “_Yes, _ now,” he croaks, and feels Cas’s smile.

He expects Cas to pull free and sink into him then and there. But he doesn’t; he drops onto the bed beside Dean, instead, and pulls him close. One firm hand on his hip turns him, so they’re chest to back, spooning, Dean’s head pillowed in Cas’s bicep; Cas’s hands roam across his chest. 

Cas shifts his hips, and his erection comes into firm contact with Dean’s ass. Dean shivers. But Cas doesn’t press further, not right away. Instead, his hands keep exploring, as he presses soft kisses to the hairline at the back of Dean’s neck. At last, at last, his left hand closes firmly around Dean’s dick, strokes up, and Dean’s only half-aware of the words spilling out of his mouth.

“Wanted you forever,” he’s babbling, and, “thought you didn’t want me, thought you couldn’t — not into guys —”

“Hmm,” Cas hums against the back of his neck, and twists his palm, a little, in a way that makes Dean shout.

“Thought you were gonna leave,” he confesses, once he gets his breathing under control. “Thought that’s what you kept trying to tell me.”

Cas stills. He lifts his head, for a moment, and Dean’s breath hitches over the idea of losing this position; it’s too good, too perfect, all-encompassing — being wrapped in Cas’s arms while Cas works him, while the head of Cas’s dick teases his asshole, warm and wet and ready. But Cas only draws him closer, and he says into Dean’s skin with a hint of a growl, “You can be a colossal idiot, for the smartest man I know.”

The old instinct kicks at his heels; Sam’s the smart one. “I’m not —” he starts, but he never gets further than that, because that’s the moment Cas chooses to roll his hips and squeeze the base of Dean’s cock and slide, with excruciating deliberation, inside.

Dean sees stars. He’s panting, and shaking, and Cas holds him through it; left hand still tight on his dick, right arm a bar across his throat. Cas is speaking, a low fierce litany: “Dean, you are brilliant, and brave, and good. You are _ beautiful_. You take my breath away daily. I can imagine no greater privilege than knowing you, and yet you’ve granted me one anyway —“

And here, he rolls his hips again, and he might keep talking, for all Dean knows, but he’s too far gone to hear.

It’s all Cas’s cock, piercing to the core of him, sparking off that secret impossibly sensitive place again and again and again; Cas’s hand working him slow and torturous, lifting sometimes to Dean’s mouth so he can slick it with his tongue, and he does, desperate for Cas to resume; Cas’s arm, pressing Dean hard to his chest, bending his back in an arc; Cas’s lips, moving with praise against the back of his ear.

It’s the best thing he’s ever felt. It’s overwhelming, a flood tide of sensation, and he’s lost within it; he’s helpless. He’s Cas’s, and Cas’s, and Cas’s, and it seems like a wonder beyond wonder when Cas starts to lose it, too — when his breathing goes ragged and desperate and the rhythm of his hips dissolves into frantic, needy thrusts. Dean rolls back into him, encouraging, and the words Cas is gasping now are just _ Dean, _ over and over again: “Dean, I — Dean — _ Dean _ —”

“That’s right, babe, give it up for me,” Dean’s murmuring back. “Just let go; I’ve got you. I’m yours. Show me you know it. Show me you’ve —“

Cas goes suddenly, perfectly still. Then his hips give one more desperate heave, and he’s shuddering, all over, pumping into Dean’s ass and hitting his prostrate again and again, and Dean’s coming too, at long last — desperate and overstimulated and out of his own head with pleasure, soaring high, burrowing into the sensation, falling through his own mind.

When he lands, it’s on sticky sheets, soaked with sweat, Cas slowly softening inside him. Every muscle in his body feels like liquid. He’s not sure he’ll ever move again.

Dean starts to laugh — not out of humor but wonder, disbelieving joy. After a beat, Cas is laughing too, the movement dislodging his dick; it slides free with a squelch. And they’re both cracking up in earnest, Dean rolling to sling his sticky chest across Cas’s; “I love you,” he tells him, natural as anything, and plants a smacking kiss on Cas’s lips.

Cas laughs through it. “I love you, too,” he manages, once he’s done. And then, collapsing on his back to stare up at the ceiling: “I’d take that beer now.”

Dean fucking _ loses it. _He’s still trembling from the aftershocks, body wrung out and soaked with sweat, and now he’s laughing his lungs out of his chest; now he’s curled in on himself, wheezing, and he’s going to die here and now, and he’s not going to mind.

It takes long minutes for him to gather enough breath for words. Cas is watching him with a light in his eyes like he _ loves Dean, _and he does; he just said so. Dean chokes for air and wheezes, “Go get it your own damn self.”

Cas grins even wider. He sits up in bed, then bends over Dean, cupping his chin to kiss him one more time, long and lingering. Then he scoots to the edge of the bed and stands, swaying slightly, for a moment before he finds his balance, and trips away to obey.

**Author's Note:**

> Rebloggable on [tumblr](https://gravelghosts.tumblr.com/post/187473133194/spn-fic-like-anyone-in-the-world-deancas) I suppose!


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